Solen
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: This battle, to take away the pain: Berwald intends to win it for Lukas. / All the SuNor! Based on the song "Great Expectations".


Dedication: This story is a special birthday gift for **Danskekupkake**, as SuNor was requested by _PruCan4evar_ for the birthday girl. I hope you like this and happy birthday dearie. :D

Song: « Great Expectations » by Elbow. Each section is a verse, alternating POV between Norway and Sweden. If you don't know the song we can't be friends. :| Go do yourself a favor and listen to it.

Names used: **Sweden** (_Berwald_), **Norway** (_Lukas_), **Denmark** (_Christen_), **Finland** (_Timo_), **Sealand** (_Peter_), **Netherlands** (_Marijn_ [cuz it kind of looks like marijuana])

Author's note: I have loved this song for years and listening to it again one day I was struck by the line, "You were the sun in my Sunday morning/Telling me never to go." It's been waiting for a while to be written and now, of course, has brought into the world more SuNor. I'd apologize for the angst but this is SuNor we're talking about and in this one they get pretty mushy gushy, SuFin shippers beware. D:

To reiterate, each section goes between Lukas's POV and Berwald's, back and forth. The start is Lukas's.

* * *

**Solen**:  
Søndag/Söndag

One of the drops breaks free, moving quickly down the window pane and taking a few fellow droplets with him. Lukas watches with unfocused eyes: the contrast between the water on the window so close, the dark and bleary Norwegian countryside behind. He reaches out a hand, tracing the path of the drop with a thin finger; the fog on the window parts, permanently marking the now-fallen rain drop.

"Rest in peace," he whispers as the phone in his hand begins to dial.

He shouldn't be calling the house but he knows Berwald has his phone off, a long weekend to be spent at home with his little boy and husband. Lukas knows he shouldn't but the Swede is a drug he's addicted to and even though Timo is home, even though Timo might pick up before Berwald, even though Timo might overhear Berwald talking to him, precipitating another fight-

Peter answers. "Hi Uncle Lukas," the boy mutters in accented Swedish, his voice no longer as childlike as it once was but still higher than it normally is.

The Norwegian knows that voice. "Where are your parents Peter?"

"Oh, you know," and the boy takes a deep breath, his voice calming after that, "fighting in the other room."

"How long have they been fighting?"

"Today or in general?"

Lukas likes Timo more days than not because the Finn has finally become self-assertive, has fought wars that won him respect in the eyes of the other Nordic nations. And sometimes he becomes too sweet and too gushy and too everything Lukas hates in a person, but other times he swings the opposite way: foul language, cruel words, punches and kicks that are too well placed. Berwald doesn't like anyone else to see that side of Timo, the side that's been coming out more and more these last two years when they're together, and Lukas knows it's not just because Berwald loves Timo and wants everyone to see the best in him.

It's also because he's ashamed of how his family has fallen apart. Lukas can't say he blames him.

"How are you holding up Peter?" Lukas inquires. He's learned a lot about the young English boy from phone calls like this, or meetings where Berwald and Timo argue privately in some office while the other Nords watch the twelve year old.

The boy's laugh sounds forced. "Oh, you know, just-" There's a click.

"Hello?" a deep voice demands: Berwald. Both knowing he's angry neither nation wants to speak first but Lukas, having found he cares for Peter, decides he must be the one to do something, and when the boy quietly hangs up his line the Swede asks, "Lukas? Is that you?"

He hangs up; the phone falls to the ground.

* * *

Several hours later and Peter happily on a train to Copenhagen to spend time with Christen (Berwald knows he'll regret that decision later), the Swede's car crunches as it pulls up the unpaved path to Lukas's house. It's not a big place though it is larger than Berwald's since he had built it after he built his own house, no longer quite the happy home it once was.

With a blank face and large umbrella he gets out, throwing his bags over a shoulder and locking the car. At the front door he turns his key ring till he finds the one to the Norwegian house, letting himself in and placing everything on the ground to go find his companion.

In the sitting room Lukas stares into the fire sitting before it, his hands rubbing his arms in slow circles. As he walks to join him Berwald picks up a blanket, settling in behind the Norwegian who barely moves. The blanket he uses to wrap them both up, his arms coming to hold the tired man with puffy eyes. Immediately Lukas settles in against his body, nose pressing into the center of his chest as eyes slip closed.

"I've missed you," Berwald murmurs into the man's hair, his eyes watching the fire as he nuzzles the head.

"Make it stop," Lukas protests and immediately the Swede understands he means the pain. Everything is broken, wrong, upside down and inside out, and he's no longer so sure love can overcome the cracks in his own marriage, his husband long returned to Helsinki. And Lukas, his beautiful Norwegian that Berwald has spent a thousand years loving, has to satisfy with a broken relationship with their Danish brother in blood, a relationship he never wanted but that the stronger countries forced him into, a relationship that even now has him cast as a pawn in some larger game.

This battle, to take away the pain: Berwald intends to win it for Lukas.

"How about a story?" he offers; the Norwegian nods. "This one of two young Vikings setting off on their first voyage?"

"Where are they going?"

"Northern France-"

"Ireland."

"Hmm?"

"Make them go to Ireland," Lukas protests, one hand sneaking up under Berwald's button-down shirt to palm over the smooth, hard skin.

"Beloved, our first trip we-"

"Ireland was where you first told me you loved me." That quiets Berwald who has to cast back his memory and yes, there it is, they were on a castle by the cliff watching the men laden the ship with gold. The sun had caught the gold chain wound through Lukas's hair, the wind blowing the soft blond locks in a way that made the Swedish heart pound.

"Ireland," the larger man lets the name escape his lips. Lukas sits up, looking him in the eyes; his gaze is strong but sad, passionate but empty. "Ireland was where I first knew," Berwald says, stroking a Norwegian cheek. "I had never been in love before; you were my first Lukas, in everything. You were mine."

"I am still yours," the shorter man manages, burying the palm of a hand into his eye as if to rub out the redness. "Not that I should have to remind you."

Berwald kisses him at that; there has never been enough kisses for Lukas.

* * *

They change on their respective sides of the Norwegian bed, Berwald into sweatpants and an undershirt that leaves little to the imagination as he makes his way to the bathroom. Lukas changes more slowly, stripping down before going to the drawer to pull out something: a shirt, or maybe pants so he can have his Swedish lover touch him more fully. Something on the bottom of the drawer gives way in a way fabric and wood don't.

Pushing clothes aside he finds papers he must have shoved here months ago, probably to hide them from Christen, no longer allowed to touch Lukas's clothing after ruining the man's favorite tie (a gift from Berwald three Christmases prior). Slim fingers remove the odds and ends, placing them on top of the dresser to inspect more closely under the lamp.

Notes, that's what they are, notes and picture, some of them hand drawn, some of them early photographs.

The notes were all written by Berwald.

The sketches were all drawn by Berwald.

The photographs are all of Berwald.

Lukas smiles to himself as the Swede in question reenters the room, getting in under the sheets. Lazy indigo eyes take that man in as the glasses come off, large hands rubbing that Scandinavian face in exhaustion.

Their last night together they had exchanged a vow, the last night before the union of Sweden and Norway was dissolved and finally Lukas was set free to be his own nation, with no fears, no worries - no Berwald. It had been the same vow they must have made hundreds of times before that night, before battles they would win, before battles they would lose, before leaving each other in the hands of another.

Forever: not together because two people, two nations, could never be together forever, but love that can last forever. (Maybe? Perhaps? Possibly?) Sure the other nations had all finally realized that that wasn't possible, that the heart changed so much over centuries that love wasn't, for them at least, eternal.

And yet it was for the Swede and Norwegian. And yet.

"I love you," Lukas breathes and Berwald takes him in with unfocused eyes. "I always will." The Swede smiles, his mouth half-open.

"Forever Lukas," the man says in Norwegian. "I promised you forever and you will have it one day. For now, come to bed."

"Forever." He lets the larger nation pull him to his chest, Lukas still naked.

"Forever starts tomorrow," and with that the Swede seems to drift to sleep.

* * *

People watching has always been a favorite past time of Berwald, something few of the other nations have ever seemed to appreciate the way he does. He likes to imagine the stories of the people he is watching most of all, where they were born, what their family was like, where they are going, what their family is like now. One time the Swede had narrated for Lukas all the stories he created, only stopping when his lover had pointed out that the stories all had happy endings.

Then again, maybe that's why Berwald loves people watching.

Looking up he tries to remember how many more stops on the bus to the museum, Vikingskipshuset på Bygdøy. It had been over ten centuries since he and his companion had seen the Oseberg ship: Berwald had remembered the where, Lukas the when, though neither could remember the who. It would be an exciting way to mark their 1,309th anniversary together.

He's about to look at his ever-faithful friend when the bus jostles them, Lukas sliding into Berwald who holds him tight before they both slide back towards the window. The man stills in his grasp, allowing the Swede to lean down and kiss the corner of his lips, before turning to look out the window once more. Loosening his hold, his arm going around the back of the Norwegian's seat, Berwald resumes trying to figure out if they have one more stop or two after this.

One more, he decides, and when he goes to tell Lukas he catches the man with wide eyes, fingers pressed to the window and his whole body turned towards something. Across the street Berwald sees a little girl, each of her hands holding tightly to a man as they walk; the one say something to the other, laughing, before kissing his partner. The girl giggles at her two fathers.

That's a story Berwald would like to imagine.

Yet his thoughts are interrupted when Lukas looks up, his face open and honest, so rare for in public. And the Norwegian smiles beautifully, a big, wide smile, before one hand pulls Berwald down to his lips, kissing him deeply in a way they normally don't with others to see them, theirs always a love meant to be hidden away like a secret treasure.

When they get off at the next stop the sky starts to drizzle; Berwald holds Lukas under his coat as they head for cover in the Viking museum.

* * *

It's the first time he's seen him since Berwald went home several weeks ago. While Lukas would have preferred to stay in Berlin where at least Ludwig is quiet company, the chance to see the Swedish nation had been enticing enough to bring him out to Amsterdam with Christen and Marijn. Now the Norwegian finds himself sitting in a café, the Danish and Dutch nations enjoying getting stoned. Or at least Christen was enjoying it; Marijn Lukas has yet to fully figure out.

Berwald sits stoically, breathing deeply. One of his hands is on the table, his other arm over the back of his chair. He's yet to say anything, yet to reach for anything. When Lukas had arrived he had raised his eyebrows before going back to staring at Marijn's chair. This is a different kind of quiet.

"Tell me," Marijn says in Danish; it's the language they've been speaking all day. "How is your husband? I'm surprised you came all this way without Timo."

Berwald stares, his eyebrows raised and his face blank as he takes in the Dutchman. They seem to have a silent conversation as they lock eyes, Christen snorting and laying his head on Lukas. The Norwegian huffs and the Dane sits up again, annoyed.

"We are," the Swede starts, gaze dropping to his pointer finger on the table tracing the lines of the tiles, "no longer married."

For just a moment Lukas forgets to breath.

"Really?" Christen demands incredulously, the smallest Scandinavian nation left to stare at Berwald with wide eyes. Marijn, Lukas can feel, is watching him; Christen seems ignorant. "Bro, when did this happen?"

The man shrugs, his eyes having once more fallen to Marijn's chair. "Couple weeks ago, we've been talking about it for longer though."

"And why didn't you tell us?" the Dane asks, weed forgotten on the table.

"Didn't feel much like sharing I guess." And at that Lukas understands because Berwald doesn't guess, Berwald doesn't doubt, Berwald knows and when his eyes come up to meet indigo ones, Christen and Marijn going back to their smokes to try and move past the awkwardness, Lukas knows too. Those sea-green eyes are sad, apologizing, and Lukas doesn't know for what Berwald feels sorry but he feels it too, some guilt weighing down on him now, guilt that the Swede hadn't wanted him to have.

When Christen hands him the joint Lukas takes it for something to do, Berwald once more lost in his own thoughts at the table.

* * *

It starts the moment they get to the hotel room. Why didn't he tell Lukas? Why didn't he mention it? How long has this been going on? When did they start keeping these kinds of secrets from each other? How can Lukas trust him if Berwald won't even tell him if he's married or not?

"Stop," he finally protests, his heart in his throat, his heart not in the word. Immediately Lukas falls silent, standing between his legs as the Swede rests on the edge of the bed. "You're asking questions that have no answers beloved; I did not do this, to you, on purpose."

"No," the Norwegian fumes in a low voice, "you did this to yourself and that's why you need me, to save you from this shit. God you're stupid." Looking up he sees the indigo eyes searching out the window for something.

Large hands numbly reach for Lukas's hips, pulling them forward before sliding up his back. Berwald's forearms hold that chest to his face buried in it, clothing smelling faintly of weed and tobacco and alcohol.

"Björn?" It's a quiet voice; maybe his lover hadn't meant to say his old name aloud.

"It was bad," Berwald starts, "towards the end. Timo had started to- act out, I would say, the way he had before leaving for Russia. Then I had had the strength and stupidity to try and take him back; now I know I must let him go." He nuzzles his nose into the soft cardigan, feeling the buttons of the shirt beneath digging into his forehead. "We both agreed that it was for the better, that we were just never meant to be- like that. Those centuries we spent together we were in love, I will not deny that and Timo would not either, but when he came back-" The Swede sighs. "For us it could never go back to that. We tried to make it work, for Peter, because I brought a child into this, but my son is old enough now to understand that this wasn't his fault. He didn't cause the divorce, this wasn't his doing."

Thin fingers thread into his hair, ruffling it, before in Old Norse Lukas asks, "Did I?"

Sea green eyes search for the indigo ones high above and when he finds them he leans back, pulling Lukas down over him. The man crawls on the mattress until Berwald rolls them, pinning him down and kissing him senseless. All those things words cannot express he puts into that kiss, Lukas's arms held down above his head, Berwald's free hand touching and caressing and communicating. He can feel the body beneath him turning up, knows the Norwegian's lungs are empty, but he takes one last drag of his lips across Lukas's before finally breaking the kiss, the man beneath him gasping like a drowned man pulled from the water at the last moment.

The heart in his chest is pounding louder than ever before: louder than when as Vikings they would go in for raids, louder than the first time he had had to kill a woman, louder than the day he thought Christen had killed Timo or when they left the Kalmar Union or the first time he felt a bomb go off beside him. As a child Berwald hated the feeling, pounding at his chest with his small hands to try and make it stop before he realized that it was love that made his heart do that, that he felt love so strongly it literally hurt him, the aching unbearable.

Lukas's hair is a mess, his mouth open, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, and Berwald thinks that this- no, he decides, this he needs to say out loud.

"You are," the Swede begins, continuing in the Norse language that only he and Lukas are left to speak. Christen only retained chunks of it, Emil never fully mastered it, and Timo was never taught it; it is truly a language that only Berwald and Lukas have lived to remember. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Your touch electrifies me, your smile sends me to heaven. Your voice gives me chills and your love is all that has any worth anymore in this world beloved, the only thing that ever had value to me. You are a blessing from God that I have never been worthy of. You make," and he leans down to cradle Lukas's head in his hands, tears falling from his face as he watches Norwegian tears flow over his fingers tips, "everything so beautiful. You made this little boy a man, you made someone worthless into something priceless. You did that Lukas, you made me who I am, so don't you ever think that you broke me or ruined me because you have never done anything wrong in my eyes, you perfect man.

"Oh God I love you," and Berwald crushes their lips together for fear of what words he might find yet.

* * *

The sun will rise late today in Oslo; Lukas is glad. In his townhouse he shifts to better watch Berwald sleep beside him, naked and warm and wonderful, autumn outside far from the Norwegian man's thoughts.

A thin hand reaches out to touch one of the Swedish cheeks, fingers running down the line of Berwald's strong jaw. The nation has not gone home since he left Stockholm for Amsterdam, came to London with the Norwegian before following him back to Oslo; Lukas doesn't ask why.

The face of Berwald asleep is much more intriguing than the reason he's sticking to Lukas as if they were once more in a union, Norway leading Sweden. But that was never the case his mind tells him, a mind filled with memories of a life passed with his dearest friend. And now, like this, no glasses, no masks, no fears, no worries, Berwald is once more that young Viking Lukas fell in love with well before Ireland, when they could sleep easy on a cot holding each other close.

They don't make men like Berwald anymore, with a gracefulness few are left to appreciate. They don't make gentlemen like him anymore, they don't make scholars and statesmen like him anymore, they don't make fathers and brothers like him anymore.

And so, in essence, Lukas is touching the face of the last of a dying breed.

It was at the fortress in Tønsberg he first saw the man he would come to love more than any other, Leifr sitting with the king's wife, Björn arriving with his party's leader. Never had the Norseman seen anyone quite so handsome, tall and strong but slender in a way, with his grace from their pagan gods. Light hair and eyes like the sea had crowned that god-like form that had made the ladies of court whisper, made men challenge Björn to duels to prove his honor.

More than that, though Berwald hates the memory, Lukas remembers the day Björn became Berwald, the day of the Swedish nation's baptism. Three times he had watched his even-now lover be emerged in the water; each time he'd come up for air his eyes had met Lukas's, holding the already-Christian's gaze. Since then religion has been a touchy topic with the Swede, who sometimes professes his belief in God and other times reverts to the old prayers that still give him great comfort.

Because Lukas, more than him, had felt that being Christian was the right thing and so Björn had let himself die for the one he loved, replaced with Berwald, the man the Norwegian had left that church with as the sun broke free of low clouds for just a moment. Even now as he remembers that day Lukas can see light coming through the shutters, casting shadows on a stirring Berwald.

"Good morning," Lukas murmurs in a low voice, leaning to kiss those lips gingerly. The Swede reciprocates sleepily before yawning, rolling onto his back.

"Something like that," the man sighs in a scratchy voice.

The larger nation moves to get up and at that the Norwegian makes his decision, shifting to sit atop Berwald, pinning him down. "Have I ever told you?" he teases. Relenting his lover lays back down, settling in comfortably, shifting so that his hips brush against Lukas's through the many layers between their bodies. It makes them both smirk.

"Told me what?" Berwald plays along.

"That you," and the Norwegian runs his fingers up the exposed chest, shifting to palm the hard upper muscles before going over a shoulder, "that you were my sun in the sky and moon at night?"

Something in his face changes. "Am I?" It's curiosity, genuine emotion, Berwald's eyebrows both relaxed and raised in question, his face open. Later Lukas will curse himself for allowing his soul to be so naked before another but then again, the only other one to see that side of him has always been Berwald.

"You," he breathes, leaning down with each words as his hands run over the Swedish neck and up into that short hair, gripping it so tightly he can see Berwald cringe in pain, "you are my everything and don't you ever, I mean ever-"

* * *

"-leave me," Lukas sighs finally, demanding a kiss like they used to demand gold from coastal villagers. And Berwald lets the Norwegian, lets him do as he pleases, until he can't take it anymore and has to touch the man too, running his hands over that bare back to grip his shoulders, pulling him flat against his chest. Berwald takes and takes while Lukas demands more and more until there is no air left between their legs.

The sun. The moon. Everything. Few things have ever frightened Berwald: the first time he saw someone die, an elderly woman that had raised him; what he felt when he could not find the first mortal he had ever loved, a woman that he wept over for days; waiting to take Peter home for their first day as a family.

This, the weight of those words, scares Berwald the most.

Because he is the poetic one, the sentimental one, the romantic one. Lukas takes and that's perfectly fine by him, to be the giver, the provider.

Only Lukas has ever sought him out, actively pursued him, made the Swedish nation feel like this.

When the silence continues, sea green eyes that can barely see from the lack of light and lack of glasses continuing to stare up at him, he can sense Lukas tense. He feels the words against his chest, his heart, before he hears them.

"I know," the man begins in Swedish, Swedish that was perfected for all the wrong reasons but still sounds so right to Berwald's ears, "that I am unpleasant to live with. That I am moody. That I am difficult. That I have," and he laughs sadly, meeting Berwald's gaze almost in defiance, "a black heart, through and through, but I-" At the stutter Berwald runs his hands over the Norwegian's sides to rub small circles on his back. "I promise Berwald, I will be anything you want, anything at all. You want me to marry you, I will. You want me to stay at home, I will. You want me to be happy and peppy like Timo, I will. You want someone Peter can like, I'll be his best friend. Just tell me you'll never leave, tell me I will never have to be without you again, because I'm done drowning in the sea without you." Indigo eyes close tightly as Lukas gasps, "I'm done living without you."

Berwald lets the words process, lets them soak into his mind and heart, lets them circulate with his blood and pass through his muscles. Tears fall to his chest as those hands move from Lukas's back to Lukas's face, holding the man steady so that Berwald can look him in those eyes as he speaks.

"Lukas Bondevik, you are my best friend," the Swede starts, "and you know what? A nation immortal can only have one of those." The man stifles a quiet laughter. "I made my decision years ago, and maybe I've been running from it, maybe everything that's happened has been me trying to cope with an imperfect world, but the fact of the matter is no matter where we go, we always return here, to each other. That has to count for something.

"So please Lukas, my most beloved," and he nuzzles his nose against the Norwegian's, lips brushing softly, "all I ask is that you smile just once for me and I will stay with you. No more forever starting tomorrow: forever can start now."

There's a shifting as his lover reaches for something before the Norwegian sits back placing glasses slowly on Berwald's face. With his vision fully restored he watches the man take a deep breath before smiling deeply, lovingly, beautifully, like he hasn't seen Lukas smile in so long. The smile he had at the first words Emil ever spoke, the smile he had their first night together after centuries apart: a smile that is so genuine, so rare, that it makes Berwald's heart race like it had back in Amsterdam. It hurts to love someone this much so he lets arms reach out to pull the man close, Lukas's head resting over the pounding heart.

The last bus to take him home leaves at half past eight in the evening; they still have plenty of time in bed, what with forever to spend together and all.

* * *

Tonight the rain lashes against the windows, the clouds dark, a storm brewing; Lukas loves it.

He lays in front of the roaring fire, Swedish flag blanket wrapped around his body as fingers lazily dial the only number he's ever bothered to memorize. The clock on the mantel piece strikes eleven at night.

"You're late," Lukas purrs into the phone as soon as he hears it pick up on the other side. "So naughty, making me wait." There's a chuckle.

"Had to make sure Peter was asleep," the man admits. "Filled him up with sweets and they worked like a charm."

Pulling the cell phone from his ear the Norwegian finds the button to switch to a video chat, laying back as Berwald comes onto his screen. "Missed me?"

"Always," the Swede sighs, reclining in his own bed.

"Love me?"

"Always."

"Really?"

"Just smile," and so Lukas does.


End file.
